The Sweet By and By

by Todd Johnson

  Lorraine startles me by bending close to my ear once she has me settled in a folding chair. “What do you want on your hamburger?”

  “I want it well done, Lorraine. And I mean done, I don’t want any pink showing. It’s not healthy. Just put a little bit of ketchup on it, nothing else. And some mayonnaise and onions, but not too much onion. I would take one tomato slice if they’ve got any that look anyhow, but not any of those thin pinkish-orange ones, I can’t stand them. There ought to be some good tomatoes now.”

  “Later on I’ll go back and get you something sweet. They haven’t put out any dessert yet. It’s too hot.”

  “I might have some banana pudding if they’ve got it, but make sure the vanilla wafers are soft or I’ll pass. I’ve never had any as good as you brought me.”

  I see Lorraine beam. “That was my mama’s recipe,” she says. “I grew up on it near ’bout every Sunday of my life.”

  “I know that was some good eating,” I add. “Come on back here and sit down with me when you get a plate.”

  Ada Everett, the queen bee, has stepped up onto a raised platform. She is waving her hands in the air, and she’s got on more bracelets than Cleopatra, jangling like kitchen utensils. “Excuse me everybody, just a minute before y’all get started eating.” Country music is blasting through two speakers that the fire department brought. I have never understood why the fire department has big outdoor stereo speakers but they do. In fact, I have found that this is true of most volunteer fire departments in North Carolina. They have access to loudspeakers. “Would you mind turning that music down?” Ada says when a fireman hands her a microphone. “Somebody please? Lorraine?” Ada has the slightest edge in her voice that I have come to wait for gleefully because it lets me know that she’s on the verge of losing control. Control of what, I don’t know. Us, I suppose. We’re helpless all, but in our own way, uncontrollable I reckon.

  Ada has managed to take charge of the whole group, which I do believe is her one mission in life, and which is exactly why the job of running this place is the best thing that could have ever happened to her. “I think we ought to say a blessing,” she says in what I call her Splenda voice—it’s got some sugar in it, but the end result is not the real thing. “But before that,” she continues, “some folks asked me a few minutes ago if I would sing something that was appropriate for the Fourth of July. Of course I said I wasn’t about to on short notice, but then I thought, maybe it’s important for us all to take a minute to be patriotic, and think about the history of this country so we can be proud. Not that we’re not already proud, but sometimes it’s good to stop and think. That’s what I always say.”

  “Oh my Lord, she’s going to sing,” I say out loud to nobody in particular.

  She starts out a cappella, but she’s pitched it too high, so it’s in the sort of soprano voice that makes you sit up straight just because you feel like if you don’t, something dreadful is going to happen to your spine. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord…

  I am aware that the “Battle Hymn” is historical and that a woman wrote it in the Civil War, but in my mind, putting religion into fighting music is like pouring kerosene on a fire that’s already plenty hot. That kind of music is best confined to the sort of people who make landscape borders out of truck tires and have life-size crosses in their yards that light up at night.

  Glory, Glory Hallelujah. His Truth is marching on. She repeats the last chorus and I get the sense she’s going to go for a high note at the end, a premonition in which I am not disappointed. His Truth—Is—Mar—ching—ON!

  Bernice, whom to this point, I have not seen, is standing by the barbecue grill, alternating between clapping wildly and whistling with two fingers in her mouth. She is holding Mister Benny under one arm, squeezing the monkey doll’s head beyond recognition. She spots me and waves; I wave back and beckon her over. I have no idea where Lorraine is, but that’s all right. I know she probably wants to talk to somebody besides me, somebody young who watches the same TV shows and goes shopping for shoes for their children on the weekends, someone who goes out to eat fish every Friday night. I don’t expect anything of her. I know she cares about me. That ought to be enough for a person.

  Ada is talking to two volunteer firemen who have walked over to congratulate her on her solo. I guess they wanted to hear something patriotic too, and she’s the closest anybody could come to that around here. Independence Day doesn’t ring too many bells for most of us.

  Bernice is holding Mister Benny on her shoulders with his legs wrapped around her neck, like holding a small child to watch a parade. Unfortunately, there is no parade. She takes Mister Benny down and holds one of his worn monkey paws outstretched as she begins to walk from chair to chair, greeting people. Most everybody stops eating and says hello, pretending to have never met Mister Benny before, but a few, like Josephus Parker, whom I know because he owned the drugstore near me for close to twenty-five years, don’t have any patience for Bernice. “Don’t bring that doll around here, woman, I don’t have any use for your foolishness!” he yells at the top of his lungs. Ada Everett stops talking to the firemen and whispers something to Lorraine. Josephus is not a happy man, but barking at Bernice is not gentlemanly, which in his day, would have meant something to him. Now he’s given up on form altogether, which makes me wonder if this is what was underneath all the time. I have seen a lot of people suffering worse melancholy who can put on a face for someone who needs to see that face, for the sake of comfort or recognition, or to feel for a few minutes like we’re all in this together and have something in common.

  The truth is we don’t have much in common except the fact that none of us is here by choice. I personally don’t resent that anymore, except on bad days from time to time. On those days, it can be something as simple as seeing the same walls over and over, not remembering much about my own walls at home, that makes me mad.

  “Look here at what I’ve got. I know you’re gon be satisfied with this here.” Lorraine is bending over me, holding out a huge bowl of banana pudding. She has scraped off most of the meringue and piled some extra vanilla wafer crust on top, exactly the way I love it.

  “Bless your heart.” I put the bowl in my lap because it’s too heavy to hold with one hand while taking a plastic spoon in the other. “I know it’s not going to be as good as your mama’s though.”

  Bernice strolls over with Mister Benny on one arm and the other waving out to the side like she’s in a beauty contest. I’ve become used to such changes of manner. She’s gazing around the landscape like she’s on the Biltmore Estate. “Hello there,” she twitters, “we are so glad you could come today. Welcome.” She obviously thinks this is her party, or maybe Mister Benny’s.

  “My name is Bernice Alton Stokes, and this is Mister Benny Stokes. I’m thrilled he could join me today.”

  “Yes honey, we’ve met on several occasions. Always a pleasure.” I shake the paw that is offered me. She does a sort of flip with the hem of her dress, like she might be wearing a ball gown and is off to the next person. Josephus Parker has a mouthful of stringy coleslaw that he is chewing slowly to a near-liquid state. Maybe he shouldn’t be eating that, it’s hard on your stomach, I don’t know, it’s none of my business. Josephus gets up and precariously approaches the big metal cooker, made out of an old oil drum. He’s going back for seconds, and he gets around just fine without a cane or anybody’s help. The nurse on his hall is a pretty Filipino woman named Kiri or maybe Kari—it’s a funny name, it sounds like an exotic bird when you say it out loud. Whenever she tries to help him walk, he shoos her off angrily. More power to him I reckon. Bernice has made her way around the seated crowd and over to the cooker. She has welcomed almost everyone in the spirit of a true hostess at a party that unfortunately has absolutely nothing to do with her.

  “Hello there, how’re y’all?” She sticks out Mister Benny’s paw to Josephus Parker, but he’s serving his plate at the condiment table and doesn’t
look up. Bernice starts to speak again. “I told you once,” Josephus glares at her, eyes wide. “And I’m not going to tell you again, you crazy thing.” He snatches Mister Benny and raises him over his head as best he can, like he’s going to haul off and throw him. Bernice is stone silent, her mouth is open but nothing comes out. I am watching this scene, and it seems like things are moving slowly enough that I can stop them, there’s space in between each action, each word. But I’m paralyzed. Mister Benny lands square in the barbecue. He’s on fire, lying on top of the grill with sizzling beef patties all around him. Somebody yells for Ada Everett, I can’t tell who. Kiri or Kari is trying to reach down into the deep cooker, but it’s too hot and she can’t find any tongs, primarily because one of the volunteer firemen is clacking them like a crab claw while talking away to Ada, presumably praising her vocal expertise. Her expression alters dramatically when she sees the commotion by the cooker.

  “Bernice, leave him alone!” I shout when I see her reach toward the barbecue. I know she hasn’t got enough sense not to stick her hand in there. I want to get up and slap Josephus Parker in the face, and if I could, I would. Lorraine grabs Bernice’s arm and extinguishes Mister Benny with a spatula before lifting him out and handing him off to Kari. He is black and smoldering.

  “We’ll clean him up, darlin,” Lorraine says, “he’ll be all right.” Lorraine is not a sentimental woman, but she can see that Bernice is on the edge of a cliff and is trying to avoid what might happen if she jumps.

  “That’s not him, take it away from me. That’s not him,” she screams at Kari. “He’s burning. Reach in there and pull him out. Reach down in there!” Ada Everett is standing near her now, the crowd is silent at the sound of Bernice’s cry.

  “Bernice, that’s enough,” Ada says, putting a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  Bernice snaps her head around, she has terror in her eyes. “Reach in there! You!”

  “We have Mister Benny out, he’s right here, Kari will clean him up.” Ada is embarrassed in front of the firemen, who are stunned. One leans over to me and says, “They ought not to have crazy people in here with you all. There are places for them these days that are good, real good.”

  Bernice is struggling in Lorraine’s strong arms. “Nobody knows him but me. Stop it. Nobody knows him. I know him. Get him out.”

  “Kari, go wash him off,” Ada says. “And call Dr. Jordan, you’ll have to have him paged. Get something to calm her down. Lorraine, you walk her back to her room if she’ll go.”

  “She’ll go with me.” I’m startled how loud my voice sounds. “Let her come with me. Bernice, come on with me, we’ll take care of it. You know how much Lorraine loves Mister Benny and she’s not going to let anything happen to him. Now come on here, let’s go rest. I need to rest, you come and help me get settled in like you do, hear?”

  “Reach down in there and get him. Please, will you please?” Bernice is crying, softly now, more of a whimper. “Is he in there? He’s little; he can’t get out. Reach in there and get him out.”

  I can’t do anything to help her. She’s walking with me, but I’m not really doing anything. I wish I could look inside her and save her from everything that hurts her, the pain of a dead son, the mourning which had found its way into a vessel that could, for a time, seem to hold it. I want to scoop up her, and Mister Benny, and put them in my car and drive to Nags Head. That’s what I want, to see the ocean again, and not look back. Not ever lay eyes on anybody here again. Lorraine can come too. She’s scared of water, but I want her with me. And we’ll call Ann once we get down there, at a fish camp eating some fried flounder with tartar sauce on it, and we’ll tell her we’re fine, and not to bother to come after us. And the waitress will come over and ask us if we want some more tea, and we’ll say, “Yes, we sure would. What kind of pie do y’all have today?” Then she’ll go and have a look at what’s left. I know they’ll have old-timey chocolate with meringue on top because they always do, and we’ll sit there together as long as we want to, laughing and eating our chocolate pie.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  RHONDA

  I might have on too much makeup, I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to cover up something there ain’t no use hiding. I used to have some better fitting jeans too. I know how to go out at night, but in the daytime, I haven’t had a lot of practice in a while. There’s a million cars already here, I’m probably not gonna know but a handful of these people. I should have stayed home and taken my day off like most people and watched TV, gone to Kmart, maybe planted some petunias in the yard to give it some color.

  Connie Donnell spots me as soon as I get out of the car and waves with both arms like she’s signaling an airplane in for a landing. “Hey girl, we been waiting for you! Come on in!” I think it’s strange she said “in” cause everybody’s standing out in her yard, she couldn’t fit all these people into her trailer if she wanted to. Connie glances behind her to a group of guys in a circle, looking serious like they might be solving the problems of the world with Budweiser and Marlboros. It’s also strange she said, “we,” cause she’s standing next to a couple kissing each other that I’ve never seen before.

  She looks over her shoulder again and hollers in a high voice that could curl hair, “Hey Mike, why don’t you go get Rhonda a beer?”

  A tall guy with thick blond hair and a goatee turns. “Am I the only one’s got hands around here?”

  “Yeah and I thought you had a few manners to go along with em but I guess I was wrong.”

  I interrupt. “I can wait on myself Connie. I been doin it a long time.”

  “I know that.” She smiles and lowers her voice. “That’s Mike, Rhonda. The Mike I told you about?”

  My goal in coming to a pig pickin was to eat some good food and get a little tipsy. I shoulda known Connie would take it on herself to make things more complicated. She knew my luck in men lately and also that I was near giving up. So many assholes, too little time. I’ve been on a lot of dates, but only because I thought I ought to. Mike approaches with two dripping longnecks and touches one, icy cold, to the back of Connie’s neck. “Shit!” she screams. “I’m gonna kill you!”

  Mike jumps back, faking being scared, and bows from the waist, arms stretched out holding the bottles. “A brew for Your Highness. Or Highnesses, I oughta say.” He winks.

  “Now that’s more like it.” Connie recovers. “Mike, this is my friend Rhonda. We both used to do hair at Evelyn’s before I saw the light. Rhonda still works down there.” Connie drives a UPS truck now and preaches the glories of it like she was born again. I know she makes good money. She says she’s saving up to haul off that trailer and build her a house.

  “I guess that means I did not see the light, which would not be the first time, I promise you.” I put out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike.” His hand is soft like a woman’s, not what I expected. I look at the ground. God, I hate these jeans I’ve got on.

  Connie pats me on the shoulder and steps away from us. “I’m gonna let y’all get acquainted a little bit. I got a bunch of slaw and stuff in the house that I need to put out. We’re fixin to eat soon.” She breaks into a little trot towards the porch. She’s running funny like she might have to pee.

  Mike crosses his arms and stands with his legs spread apart like he’s planting himself to keep from getting blown away by a tornado. “So,” he says, “you been doin hair for a long time?”

  “Only thing I’ve ever done. You could say it’s my callin.” I hear the sarcastic edge in my voice.

  “Well I think it is a callin. Look around here and you’ll see a few heads that look like they could use a come-to-Jesus moment.”

  “Too many permanents,” I point out. “There’s no goin back.”

  “Sorta like plastic surgery. The more you do, the more you need to do.”

  “What do you know about plastic surgery?”

  “Not a damn thing. I don’t know what I’m talkin about.”

  �
�I like a man who stands by what he says.” I catch myself looking into his face. I like this guy, but I’ll never let on to Connie that she was right in telling me I would. It’s a nice open face. I don’t love that goatee cause it seems like everybody’s got one, but I like his face, especially his nose. It’s hard to find a nose that is exactly the right size. I always have the feeling that it was the last thing God added to the face and then reached down into a grab bag and whatever came out got plopped on underneath the eyes whether it looks worth a damn or not. Some of em come out all right like Brad Pitt’s, but most of em are off to begin with and get worse the older you get.

  Connie yells from the porch. It’s that shrieking voice again; she oughta work on that or either put it to use calling hogs. “Let’s eat y’all! Come and get it ’fore I throw it out!” Somebody turns up the music; I guess the time for polite talk is over and now it’s time to get rowdy before the sun goes down. Last time she threw a pig pickin and it lasted into the night, somebody called the police from down the street and said they could hear Alan Jackson like he was in their living room.

  Mike looks at the long table on the other side of the yard, now loaded up with huge platters of barbecue, fried chicken, corn on the cob, and every kind of cake you might want. I wonder if this is the end of our conversation.

  “Well it was nice meetin you, Mike,” I say, so I can be the one to finish first.

  “You not gonna eat?” Mike asks.

  “Yeah I am, but I thought you might want to eat with your friends.”

  “I don’t know none of those guys. I know Connie from work, that’s all.”

  “Lord, don’t start preachin the gospel of UPS to me, okay?”

  “Hey it’s a good job, she’s glad to have it. We got a lot of women drivers now.”

  I soften. “I know, I’m glad for her.” I feel like I’m about to ruin something sweet by pouring vinegar into it. I decide to change the subject.